


Tarot

by benignmilitancy



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Sonic is a bit of a grumpy bear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benignmilitancy/pseuds/benignmilitancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sonic went to Never Lake for an adventure, and received a destiny. A bit of AUish fluff centered around Sonic CD. Implied SonAmy. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tarot

Sonic pulls back from scrutinizing his reflection, which sways and shimmers inside glass like an abstract tidal wave.

“Nope,” he says, poking at the orb with one finger. “Everything’s still coming up blue smear.”

The owner, a black cat who replaces merchandise behind a fallen canvas, suggests in a gruff voice he must not be doing it right. Words you don’t say to Sonic the Hedgehog unless you mean a challenge. Sonic grips the table with both hands and tries again, examining the orb so closely his breath partially fogs the glass.

“Come on, crystal ball, do your stuff,” he goads, giving his upturned tail a small flick for good measure. “Sonic needs a new adventure to go on. I know you can do it. Show me when the Little Planet’s gonna come out. Just one teeny hint. That’s all I want.”

Nada. Black irises blink. He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue at himself, replacing blue with pink, and immediately suffers the merchant’s reprimand.

“Hey. This ain’t the candy apple stand, yunno. Wanna play around, go bother Bartleby. Here you either buy or move on.”

The hedgehog can’t help but grin. “No offense, but I kinda doubt a hunk of glass is gonna change my life.”

“Oh, but an Emerald will?”

And there the grin goes. He’d just arrived to go run around on Little Planet, maybe glimpse some of those Time Stones everyone reveres almost as much as Chaos Emeralds. But circling the lake three times without so much as a stirred cloud has forced him to kill time down at the adjoining Mystic’s Festival, pestering people while they set up shop. He didn’t think they’d heard of … his little adventure last summer.

He drums his fingers against the plywood table on which an entire row of crystal balls sit, every single one of them reflecting a tapping white glove. “Does everybody know about that?”

The cat sniffs. “Son, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who don’t,” he says. “‘sides, Little Planet waits for no hedgehog, especially not jokers like y—” This punctuated by a large crash, with almost comical timing.

“Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear ya over the explosion.” Sonic cranes his neck. “Need any help back there?”

“More than you could give me, I’m afraid.”

Sonic would laugh had not the briefest flash of pink entered his vision. He stops, curious, straining on tiptoe to peer around the corner, hearing only the merchant curse under his breath as he picks through glassy rubble. Could have sworn he saw someone duck behind the curtain …

“Jan’s gonna have my head for sure. Damned things are so heavy … ” The cat’s voice drags him out of his reverie. “Hey, stranger, you gonna stay for the fireworks show? People say it’s spectacular every year. You should come take a look-see if you got the time.”

“Eh, I dunno yet.” He performs akanbe at himself. “Maybe. If the Little Planet doesn’t show up.”

“Either way,” replies the cat, slamming down a box marked FRAGILE with unnecessary force. Must be the broken crystals, from the wry way he grimaces and props a muscular forearm atop the cardboard. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He laughs. “Yeah, sure. Try not to rip off too many folks this afternoon, huh?”

“Scram, Turbo.”

“Gladly, geezer.”

He gives the tent one last passing glance, as if to peer through the fabric, then leaves.  
__________________

Another rock skips across Never Lake, disturbing its placid face. Its source: a blue figure standing against the backdrop of an even bluer sky.

Here everything moves according to a different tempo. Mild breezes rustle tall stalks and gently stir the lake, as if invisible beings purse their lips to the water. It’s slow, but it’s peaceful, and he supposes he could live with that if the molasses pace doesn’t get in his way. Either way, it’s hard to believe this could ever become a place of violence or unrest, where nature’s languid whims hold reign.

Sonic puts a fancy backspin on the last of his rock supply, shifting the bulk of his weight to his other foot like a pitcher. He watches it make good distance, almost halfway across the expanse, before sinking completely. 

He can’t deny the weather’s beautiful. Clouds drift over the savanna, their puffy bodies squeezed between rocky plateaus and the lake’s surface. He looks once more to the terns crossing the zenith in lazy circles, relishing another lungful of cool lake air. The sun overhead blazes so strongly it nearly hurts in its luminescence, and promises nothing but a great summer ahead.

No Little Planet, though.

He heaves out a sigh and snaps a dry twig over his knee. His calves itch for a good run, a real run, not just another mindless lap-around-the-lake. Already his mind churns with thoughts of his next potential adventure. Once he finishes recharging his batteries here, he’ll cross off another landmark on his map. He’s heard Westside Island has got a lot going on lately. Roughing it out in the untamed rain forests, maybe, or pummeling through grassy fields newly ripened for a sonic boom.

Who knows? To him the map is a guide, not a marking of boundaries. He could go anywhere and do anything he wants, so long as the only limits he has are the ones he places on himself.

Now, however, he just wants to go somewhere they don’t know his name.

“Sonic?”

Oh, no.

Hearing his name spoken out loud almost always means someone wants to pin him down. But not today, he’s resolved; the grass impresses with a long trail of footprints that, had an outside observer traced them back to their source, would note have no definable start or finish.

He continues running until he spots a tiny dwelling near the shore, its roof hidden in part due to a sand dune tufted by a grassy overhang. Looks to him like it hasn’t been occupied for a long time; a crude thatched door over the entrance bears sandy grit and wilts at one corner.

There. He acts out of instinct, gut reaction. Tears it open and stows in the darkness inside.

Luckily, no one follows. Not that anyone could follow him, at the speeds he blazes, but he’s learned from painful experience to make sure just in case. Some people are more persistent than you think. He peers through the slivers of light the thatch stabs through the darkness to ascertain he’s lost his pursuer, then turns around, presses his back to the cold straw, listens to the sound of blood thrumming in his ears.

“'llo? Anyone home?”

No one answers, though the silence doesn’t relieve his suspicions. Someone must live here, and recently. His nose picks up … sugar? Candy? Some sweet scent he can’t place at the moment.

He picks his way across the rush-strewn floor, which is messy with girl’s clothes and simple wooden toys. A pile of colorful scarves lies next to a sliver of mirror embedded in the wall in the northernmost corner, which gleams a bright rectangle of light from the lake outside.

Once he shields his eyes from the glare he discovers that it resides next to a raised lump of earth made in the crude shape of a bed, which itself puffs over with incongruously lush blankets. On the other side of that bed sit a hammer and a small chest, locked. Resting atop the chest is a plate, with what looks to be chocolate smeared into the grain.

Well. There’s one mystery solved.

As he inspects the cabinet shoved against the opposite wall, it’s becoming increasingly clear to him that whomever calls this home is a hoarder.

Things he’d consider useless and valuable alike occupy the same tiers. Seashells and robin’s eggs, pieces of dried grass and herbs, the occasional water-beaten coin or bit of fool’s gold. Crystals of varying hues and clarities line the bottom shelves, seemingly aligned according to some painstaking system he doesn’t quite understand.

He pokes at a hunk of amethyst and watches it rock slightly against the wooden platform. There are belongings whose significance eludes him—candles, a pack of cards, two thin metal rods shaped like upside-down Ys.

He dangles from his finger a tiny dreamcatcher the resident must have woven themselves, a shaven twig bent circular and wrapped with string while a glass bead floats in its center. Just for fun he spins it, watching with amusement how its kingfisher feathers flurry about.

Where were his manners, you might ask? Dormant, at least for the time being. Normally he would notice he’s crashed somebody’s pad and leave. But this is one of the few moments Sonic’s nosiness trumps his politesse. He continues fooling around with the various knickknacks until—

The door flies open, spraying color and form unto everything like a cold bucket of water.

And there stands gaping his answer: a girl lives here. A girl is standing there, a pink little girl in a red scarf looking at him the way any girl would at a potential burglar— He scrambles against the cabinet, banging his head against the shelf and bringing down plumes of silt, scattering cards through the air like frightened birds.

“Ow!” His embarrassment only swells as he catches sight of the mess he’d added to the floor. “Oh jeez!” he bawls, waving his arms as if he’s been caught redhanded.   
“I-I didn’t mean to! Sorry, my bad—here, lemme pick this stuff up for you—”

“No,” the girl cries. “Don’t!” He stiffens, backing away as she kneels beside him to examine the cards. “This is just what you’ve been waiting for.”

He blinks while she turns a sun card face-up. Slowly, she assembles the mess into a T-shape, moving certain cards around in the dust according to some invisible whim. “ … to play some 52 pickup?” he asks, in all earnestness.

The girl answers with a question of her own. “You’re kind of a tortoise, aren’t you?”

“A what?”

“A tortoise.” He’s shown a card of a large tortoise lying supine, with its fins pawing at the … ground?

“Um.” He’s not one to comment on others’ bad eyesight, but … Truth be told, this is a first. He’s been called a lot of unsavory things in his life, mostly courtesy of an overweight scientist, but never has he been equated with a scaly shellbacked reptilian. “If you say so, sure.”

Amusement flits across her face. She must be used to blank stares. “I don’t mean literally. The tortoise means you like to keep to yourself.” Looking back, she notes something strange. “It’s upside-down.”

“What’s that mean?”

“When a tortoise gets flipped on his back, he can’t move. The only way he can be free is to break out of his shell.”

Oy.

All this sounds well and good, but there’s always a catch with these kinds of things. Sure enough, she scoops up the remaining cards and clears her throat. “Of course, if you want to hear more, I’ll have to charge a fee.”

A fee? For knocking over a bunch of cards? This day’s going from weird to weirder.

“Okay, then.” Figuring it better not to argue and face some kind of curse put on his head, he reaches for the rings tucked under his glove cuff for this exact purpose and offers one to her. “Whatever floats your boat, O wise swami.”

Her calm facade breaks. She pushes his hand away with a giggle. “Not that kind of fee! What am I gonna do with that, silly?” The girl shakes her head while his confusion grows in spades. “Tell ya what. Meet me down at the festival in ten minutes and maybe I’ll forget the debt.”

He crosses his arms, a bit skeptical at the prospect. “What if I don’t?”

“Oh, you will.”

From any other mystic such a simple statement would sound cryptic, even a bit ominous. But even in the dim he sees no deception in her cheery, open expression, which greets him as if she’s known him from somewhere before. Like a friend. A long-time friend. When she says it, she’s not warning him of a danger to come, but reminding him of a fundamental fact about his nature. One he’d best remember if he were ever to get to the bottom of this.

Nonetheless, she spins a little pirouette on the toes of her white sneakers, one that embarrasses him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sonic, I’m Amy Rose! Some people call me Rosie Rascal, but only the ones I don’t like.” She scrunches her nose, briefly, before lightening up. “My cards told me I’d meet you today.”

“Did they? Well, there must be something to 'em, then.” After staring stubbornly at the ceiling for a moment, he piques one ear and adds, sidelong: “ … what else d'they say?”

She winks mischievously as she swivels her fists behind her back. “Uh-uh, mister. You’re not getting off the hook that easy,” she says, “but if you must know, earlier they told me that you were a traveler. You’re moving constantly like the wind.”

“First I was a paralyzed turtle, now I fly like the wind? I don’t get this magic trick.”

“Tarot,” the girl corrects. “And it’s not a trick. Neither is it a bad thing for the cards to not make perfect sense, Mr. Sonic. The future rarely ever does. That’s what makes it so exciting! If you knew what each day was gonna bring, you wouldn’t bother getting out of bed, would you?”

“I guess,” he admits. “Could be onto something there, though. That’s why I left Christmas Island. Talk about not being able to hear yourself think.”

The girl smiles at the mention of his birthplace. “You sure have come far, huh?”

“Yup.” He shares her expression, though his bears a distinct glimmer of pride. “I got ways of getting from Point A to Point B, kid, been on the Mainland for a while. But since my plane couldn’t take me here, I thought I’d grab the old atlas and hoof it.” To wit,he flicks out an accordion-like strip of paper supposed to be a world map, though it’s rather difficult to tell one country from another when they bleed together from too many red X-marks-the-spots. The poor thing is so worn and patched over with tape she’s probably marveling how it even holds itself together.

Giving the tattered parcel an accompanying once-over, he sniffs. “Huh. My planet sticker musta peeled off Never Lake.”

“I didn’t know you had a plane, Mr. Sonic.”

“Just plain Sonic, kiddo. Mr.’s for old guys.” His eyes smile with his mouth this time. “And yeah, the Tornado. She’s pretty cool for getting me past the ocean an’ stuff. Takes me where I wanna go except in energy-dense areas, then her navigation starts going crazy. That’s why I hadda leave her behind; Little Planet kicks up a storm when it pops out.”

He becomes slightly uncomfortable in the silence that follows, rubbing the back of his neck while her eyes glow on him in admiration.

“Welp,” he says as he backs toward the door. “Guess I’ll show myself out, then, let you get back to your own beeswax. Nice meetin’ ya, Amy.”

“Wait!” The cry stops him mid-step. “You’re not just gonna forget, are you? Don’t you want to hear the rest of your reading?”

“Uhh,” he says, scratching behind one ear. “I’m guessing 'no’ ain’t the right answer here.”

“You’re getting warm.”

“I’ll think about it?”

“Warmer.”

“Maybe?”

“Warmer!”

He cocks twin finger pistols at her. “Lemme check my schedule and get back to you?”

“Little colder now!”

“Not no?”

“Hot!” She bounces on her heels. “Boiling!”

“Okay, okay.” He plays along, spinning around on his heels and throwing up his arms to “curse” his fate an overdramatic fashion. “If you’ve got your heart set on it, then definitely, absolutely, twist my arm,if-I-have-to—”

“I’m gonna melt!” she cries, and flops backwards on the bed.

It won’t occur to him till much later that he never did tell her his name.  
__________

Amy specified ten minutes but takes nearly twenty. Part of the reason, he suspects, consists of the crowds. As the festival hits its stride and hunger starts to kick in, every merchant from here to three blocks over is shouting themselves hoarse trying to reel in mouths to feed. You could throw a boomerang and never have it return, the mass is just that dense.

Regardless, he takes it all in: the scents of foods frying, the yelling kids snapping toy wands at one another, the sheer volume of murmuring, jittering, laughing people which swell and ebb the narrow street like rain in a gutter.

He leans against the wall of a gaudily painted fortune-telling house, tragically named "Claire Voyant’s House of Portents." One foot crossed toe-down over his (tapping) opposite, he seems annoyed. He hogs the slim rectangle of shade Claire Voyant’s velvet awning offers from the hot noontime sun, chewing on a sprig of mint. 

Contrary to popular belief, he can be patient when he wants to be. Doesn’t mean he’ll like it, though.  
Nevertheless, a tiny smirk reaches his face as he hears Amy approach from behind. She’s huffing from the strain of lugging around what sounds like an enormous picnic basket. He tosses the mint aside.

“Got lost there, slowpoke?”

He pushes himself off the wall, the remnants of a moon mural flecked in his quills as he bends down to heft her basket over his shoulder.

Soon thereafter Amy wants to know the obvious, what crosses your mind naturally when you get a free day pass with Sonic: just how fast he really is, when he insists he’s got to slow down wherever he encounters inhabitation. Her mischievous glimmer returns to her, and soon he’s puffing out his breast with two self-congratulatory thumbs dug into his chest.

“You kidding? These feet don’t stop for nobody, not even me. I do everything fast. Eat fast, think fast, talk fast. I even sleeprun.”

“Sleeprun?”

He grins and feigns snoring against his shoulder while his legs pinwheel in place, his arms dangling limply behind him. Then he goes through the rigmarole of morning ritual: cracking open his eyes and wiping the drool from his mouth, brushing his teeth and flicking open a newspaper, all the while clouds of dust kick up behind him. “Meh, same ol’ same old. Oh, Jeeves,” he calls, flicking an invisible napkin at an imaginary butler, “fetch me my tea, would you?” Daintily he sips from fine china, pinky finger thrust stubbornly out, to the backdrop of her giggling.

“That’s nothing. Check this out.”

His natural instinct to showboat has reared its smug head, and to great effect. Bowing steeply, he plucks out three candy apples and a sandwich from inside her picnic basket and begins juggling them, much to her crowing approval. Halfway through the routine he switches hands, using the other to stifle a yawn while onlookers congregate around him murmuring in surprise.

He obliges his admirers with heavier objects from other stands and quicker movements, going insofar as to bow like a ham to Amy’s jumping and uproarious applause. Even when the main event isn’t focused on him, he’s got to turn the spotlight inward.

Despite his initial misgivings, he finds himself enjoying more and more of the festival as time goes on. The energy and vibrancy ingrained into this place can’t help but sweep him off his feet. He tries foods he’d have turned his nose at otherwise. He laughs aloud at things that would normally garner a mere smirk. He even stands akimbo, foot tapping as the weight-guesser takes a stab at his size (which is so not true, by the way).

Everywhere he goes, the little pink hedgehog follows. She seems happy to just be beside him in his own happiness, never minding his celebrity status or the invariable stares that accompany the simple fact that he dares exist in the same continuum as regular folk. She doesn’t even seem to mind that he’s wandering aimlessly about, killing time till the Little Planet peeks behind the clouds. After a while he’s starting to feel the smallest twinge of guilt, stringing this girl around.

Although she does have one request, tugging on his wrist; she wants to get a new scarf.

So he entertains himself by making faces at the various mirrors fastened to the stand. The reason she has so many clothes in her bedroom becomes readily apparent to him while she tries on a checkered apple-green scarf to replace her red one. In the brief silence, he takes the opportunity to ask her something that’s niggled at his brain.

“Hey, kid?”

“Hmm?”

“Um, not to burst your bubble or anything, but—” With a slight frown he plucks off her self-made babushka—just saying, fifty rings for a delicate piece of cloth is a bit of a gamble—and places the scarf back in its proper place on the hook, waving at the vendor who thanks him with a huff and a dirty glare. “You got any parents? Anyone to look after you?”

Deciding she likes a certain shade of blue better than apple-green, Amy tries another. “No,” she says a little too blithely at her own reflection, pulling the fabric taut over her head. “Just me.”

He feels the faintest twinge of guilt as she says this, especially the manner in which she says it—not even the smallest bit of regret taints her cheerful disposition—but he decides not to push the matter further. Couldn’t say he didn’t try.

He furrows his brow as she wanders off once more, the rich cobalt of her newest acquisition fluttering loosely behind her. “Uh, kid—kid—where ya goin’?”

“Over to see the fortune-teller.” Aren’t you a fortune-teller? “C'mon, doncha wanna see her?”

“Not really!”

“Why not?”

“'cause you didn’t pay for your … scarf thing!”

“Yes I did!” Amy shouts as the crowd begins to thicken around her. “It’s on the stand!”

He looks: a candy apple, glossy red orb dripping chocolate and mint sprinkles in the sun. He snatches it off the stand where it leaves behind a sticky ganache and waves it in the air, over a few heads, for emphasis. “Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you can’t exactly put food on the table with this kind of payment!”

“You could eat it, cantcha?”

She’s got a point, but still.

“Now you just stole from Mr. Bartleby! He’s gonna be ma-aaad,” Amy singsongs, and ducks back into the crowd. “Don’t let 'im catch you or you’ll be in real trouble, Sonic!”

He recoils for a second. Bartleby? Name sounds familiar, but—

The merchant’s words rush back to memory.

… and then it hits him.

Aw, jeez. No wonder she took so long to meet up with him earlier: she was busy swiping apples from the stupid candymaker!

Whipping around, he resolves to find this girl and make her give him a straight answer for once. Just what kinda game does she think she’s playing at, anyway?  
He decides not to dwell on the matter, or else he might inadvertently offer Amy too much of a head start. All he knows is that he won’t be played for a sucker, one way or the other. He takes a deep breath and wades through the tangle of arms and legs the best he can, offering barrages of comin’ through and sorry, 'scuse me while he does.

It arrives without warning. The stand where he’d been shouting literally moments prior explodes behind him in a cascade of dust and shard and splinter, spurring everyone, not just him, to run. Women scream and snatch their children away; men curse and duck the maelstrom the best they can.

While waiting for the dust to clear, the frightened crowd mutters curiously to itself. Just what had happened? Whispers abound that it could be some kind of meteor, some manner of fallen star.

Those theories are quickly dashed, however, as second glance reveals it to be of a decidedly more malignant nature. Twin hydraulic torches built into its soles ease it to the ground, roasting small ringlets of singe into the soil.

As it touches down, Sonic finds himself standing nose-to-nose with a lookalike. Red eyes pierce the haze, boring directly into his own.

Crap on a cracker. What’d you do now, doc?

Amy runs to his side, but he blocks her from any further progress with one hand. “Don’t.”

Shock shows in her eyes. “But—”

“I know.” His own stare is hard. “Somethin’ wicked this way comes, though, and it reeks of bad scientist.”

She falters. “Sonic—”

He whirls around, teeth clenched. “Amy, I ain’t woofin’ around with you!”

Regret immediately follows her recoiling flinch. He doesn’t mean to snap at her. But really, you don’t mess around when it comes to—

The robot bows suddenly at a ninety degree angle, sweeping out its arms as if in greeting. The exact same way he did before showing off. This gesture alone makes them back up on instinct.

Moments later his dread happens: a voice crackles through a speaker.

“How’s that for starting things off with a bang?” Great. Great, great, great. “So nice to finally catch up with you again, hedgehog! You understand that I am, of course, speaking with nothing but the utmost irony. Enjoying a bit of the local color before we die, are we?”  
It’s coming from inside the robot. He feels his muscles go rigid, his quills stand on end. Any anger he might’ve had with Amy gives way to a better instinct as he forms a barrier with his body, his stance impassive as sheetrock.

Sonic tries not to flinch as those red eyes train on him, as if they catch his inner thoughts just then. Nonetheless, it’s difficult to meet them, given the sheer lifelessness she perceives inside them. Like staring into the eyes of a corpse and not feeling anything stare back. No substance or life resides within. Just emptiness, a stark hum which vibrates the sworl-ridden air with a desolate energy of its own.

The voice croons as it stalks towards them, forcing them to backtrack even further over the rubble. “Oh, look. Seems you’ve grown so complacent without me you’ve gone and snagged yourself a little girlfriend. How incredibly cute of you, boy.” It amazes him how a single chuckle manages to sound so docile, yet plucks his last nerve out like a weed at the exact same time. “Please excuse me while I go hurl chunks.”

Sonic clutches his stomach with one hand, nerves still screaming from the hit, and grinds his molars together until his jaws burn. Not that he doesn’t want to do the same every time he encounters the blimp-sized body and natty mustache that usually come attached to that sneering tone. Another delusion of grandeur suffered on the doc’s end can’t change the fact that he wants to telegraph a suckerpunch directly through his carrier pigeon.

“Big words for a guy who won’t come out and play,” he yells back, waving at … whatever the heck that walking trash heap is supposed to be. Because really, is it? Is that meant to threaten them, growing shadows over the rocks? What’s its special power, anyway? Walking so slow you keel of old age?

Amy’s grip on his arm tightens, and he glimpses out of the corner of his eye her lips murmuring something he can’t quite make out: a prayer, maybe. The momentary distraction knocks him a little off his game, but he regains his wits—and his temper—soon enough. “You’re so smart, how come you don’t come out and face me yourself?”

Compressed laughter trickles ants down his spine. If there had been any doubt before, it’s now purged entirely and swept under the rug for good measure. He knows for sure who’s crashed this party, and he finds himself hating it more by the second.

Robotnik’s voice erupts into malicious clamor as his pet tin can stabs one razor-sharp claw in their direction.

“Bah, Sonic, if only I had the time! You see, while you were wiling away your summer frolicking in the daisies, I was busy studying the contingency failures I’d made during our last encounter. Every single margin of error that could have been humanly accounted for and then some went into this project.” The robot withdraws its claw to make a fist, a gesture that betrays not even a hint of triumph. “Toiling in my labs day and night, that was when I achieved my most brilliant epiphany to date!”

“What? Your crazy pills stopped working?”

“NO, YOU INSUFFERABLE BUFFOON!” screeches the microphone so loudly all those in the immediate vicinity clap hands over their ears.“—that the reason I couldn’t beat you was because my previous machines had no point of focus, no sense of finesse. Thus arose my magnum opus, the Metal Sonic Mk. I! Sublime craftsmanship, if I do say so myself. And it was all thanks to you, my spiky blue fiend!”

Blah-de-blah and a can of beans. The doc’s speeches could put out insomniacs.

However, his sense of humor doesn’t prevent his thoughts from surfacing a peculiar worry. Though he finds himself at a loss to explain it, the more he peers into those eyes the more a fledgling sense of recognition grows in him. It’s ghostly, though, not much of anything; he feels a familiar tingle deep in his spine, a gap in his consciousness that rises to some subconscious pulse of knowledge. Like he’d stood here once before, feet planted on the crumbled ground, watching this very scene unfold.

Deja vu.

He shakes his head at the very notion, his conscious mind clutching at straws. Maybe it’s just his head playing tricks with him in this new environment. All that psychic stuff’s bound to sneak up on you sooner or later.

Out of force of habit Sonic clenches his fists in front of himself and adopts his usual stance switching weight from foot to foot, almost rabbit-like in his gait. The robot does the same, meanwhile Amy lets out a silent gasp and drops her basket. Neither quite notices the blue scarf that flutters to the dust as she tucks behind him for protection.

“That can’t be a real clone of you,” she whispers, “can it?”

“Nah,” he replies with a firm shake of his head. “He’s way too ugly, for one thing.”

“He’s designed to outclass you in both your speed and your strength, Sonic, so there’s no point in resisting me now—every clever little move you make copies indelibly into his lexicon for future use. In short, put one toe out of line and he’ll dice you to shreds!” He tries to repress a groan as he pictures Doc Slaphappy bouncing around in his overstuffed leather chair, having squealed this last part with the enthusiasm of a little kid anticipating Christmas. “Now get in there and show him your stuff, Metal! Make your Papa proud!”

Before he can comment, a red light pierces the world, causing both hedgehogs to cry out and shield their eyes. After grazing over their forms, the light retracts back into the robot, which finally speaks for itself.

[Scanning source target …  
Source target identified:  
Sonic Hedgehog.  
Engage.]

In less than a blink—a swirl of dusty air, a skipped heartbeat—it flashes forward and seizes him by both wrists.

Gotta hand it to the doc, he knows how to make 'em strong—the bottom of his shoes scrape thin crevasses into the soil as he resists its force, and he lumbers forward merely on the give it relents. In his peripheral he glimpses Amy and the scattered crowd growing smaller, their forms veiled by dust. The other citizens are fleeing for sanctuary, but only Amy remains, her eyes wide and glistening behind her folded hands.

Wait. He blinks, through sweat and grimace. Why’s it even giving, anyway?

Bad mistake. His head slams forward while the rest of his body wrenches in the opposite direction from the sheer force of Metal’s skull colliding with his. Amy yelps in surprise and he flies some twenty feet backward, the ground abrading his quills in what seems to him the world’s most ruthless rugburn.

He lies stunned. Coughs. Sonic pushes himself slowly off the ground, hearing Amy’s cries swim in one ear and out the other. Sucking in a slight inward hiss between his teeth, he touches the hot bruise throbbing on his forehead before fixing his gaze on the figure marching through the clearing sand, intent on taking him down. 

Very briefly a grim smirk overtakes him. So the tin can wants a fight, eh?

“Yo, gearhead!” A sharp whistle emanates from the rooftop of Claire Voyant’s, and like all gazes Metal’s follows. It whips around as a wayward candy apple clunks its central CPU.

Sonic takes an enormous bite out of a caramel glaze, which puffs out his left cheek.

“So the doc says you’re supposed to be pretty fast, eh?” he asks as he crunches, pointing the half-eaten stick like a scepter at the robot who remains an impervious subject among silt and debris. “Wanna know what else runs 'pretty fast’?” He swallows, turns around and slaps his behind.

The apple sails through the air.

“Sonic!” Amy cries, tugging her skirts down through the resulting dust storm. “Sonic, wait! Don’t do it!”

They vanish before it even strikes soil.

Sonic decides to run as far as his legs can take him. He’s got to lure it out in the open, where the fight holds less chance of unwanted casualties.

I’ll get back to Amy after I trash this phony.

He ignores the resistant clench in his gut and does what he does best: keep on going.  
____________

After cat-and-mousing it for a while, they reach the perimeter of Never Lake. Somehow he must have drained its battery, because there it just … stops. Coughs one last meager puff of smoke out the exhaust and stops.

Sonic skids to a stop of his own, fighting back an insolent grin as he does. Heh. So a robot based on him had to have had the same weaknesses as him after all. Good one, doc.

Wind whistles in the clearing.

Slowly, the robot turns its head.

It speaks, much to his surprise.

[Sonic.]

He bristles. “Yeah, bozo, that’s me alright. We gonna throw down like old chums or what?”

Metal regards him with cold, virulent eyes. (a ghostly thrill stirs deep in his spine and he ignores it go away go away) Then turns to face the water.

A hush sweeps through the plains and the mountains surrounding the lake, and at long last the Little Planet appears.

Only what he sees he can no longer call a planet. It’s a hunk of steel, stillborn in the atmosphere. Its trees jagged pipework. Its mountains cold, metallic peaks thrust out against the blue sky.

Moments pass as he strains his ears over the lake’s natural sounds for the unmistakable hum and whir of oncoming machinery. He wishes for something to break the peace—childish insults, a storm of metal, shrill howling emanating from a cockpit. Something. Anything to keep his eyes from trailing the chain that tethers it to a peak in the distance.

He soon realizes why you’d better be careful for what you wish for.

“Oh ho! You like what I’ve done with the place, Sonic?”

To say he’s furious now would be a grave understatement. The irritation that’s plagued him all day chafes his nerves raw, till anger at last bleeds out from him like a broken fester.

No words seem enough: none are needed. He dashes towards the mindless automaton with the full intent to rip it apart, sand pluming on either side of him like matching tidal waves, pelting the air with debris. He’d teach this joker not to mess around before he kicked the everloving snot out of Robotnik.

“Hey,” he barks, “now you listen to me—”

“I don’t think so, brat.”

A scorching burst of blue flame erupts from the thing’s radial engine and kills whatever else he has to say. Sonic ducks out of instinct, shielding his face from the explosion of heat and light. He squints, his vision fighting to grasp solid form through that swarming mirage.

He sees a pink blur rush towards him. Like a bad dream his mind darts to the pink in his crystal ball, the pink hidden behind the curtain. Dread sprawls inside his gut.

(please don’t let it be who I think it)

A dash of blue sweeps her away. Not him. Not him, but like his reflection in the glass orb, something altogether not him.

She’s there and then she’s gone.

“Amy!” he shouts, running after her as she stretches her hand out for him in vain. It really is like chasing a falling star, the gap between sky and earth quickly dissipating. Though he’s not about to let that inconvenient little fact stop him now.

“Help!” Amy screams. “Sonic, help!”

He bounds after the robot, springs through the air and latches onto its ankle just as it takes off. But the metal slips easily from his fingers and he scrambles just to hang on. Between the intolerable heat blistering his skin and Amy screaming it’s hard to even think—

“Don’t worry, Amy, I got you!” He says it to rectify more than one mistake he’s made today. “Hold on!”

It swivels its head around a full three-sixty.

[Don’t worry. Amy.]

“ … what?”

[I got you.]

He gapes, half-sneers once he realizes. “What’d you just—”

[Hold on.]

That voice is the last thing he hears before a titanium leg flashes out and pummels him heel over head, knocking him into the ground with the approximate force of a bus colliding into a brick wall. A pure white screen flashes through his vision, eradicating his senses for split seconds. That mercy quickly dissipates, though, and wind gnaws at him, soil lashes out at his flesh, Amy shrieks and sobs for Metal to show mercy, he slams into the rocks below and his entire body jolts from the shock.

Metal hovers almost pointlessly in midair as it watches Sonic writhe inside the crater it made, burning octane inside its self-contained shield. The dust clears, allowing rocky detritus to hit the ground in odd intervals. During that time the hedgehog forgets to breathe, for precious moments. Amy also waits with bated breath, unshed tears glimmering her irises.

Then he clutches the edifice beside him and uses it to stagger upright, struggling to regain himself through the nausea threatening to swallow him whole. Air burns crisp in his lungs, vision swims at its edges. He totters a step forth and stumbles to his knees, causing Amy to gasp. Even Robotnik has to reprimand him for his blatant stupidity.

“Hah! Still as bright as a bag of hammers, I see.” Metal turns towards Little Planet with its head bowed slightly, as if to give the tiny satellite obeisance. “Metal, report back to me on the double! You’re finished here.”

Words that’ll put the spring back in his step no matter how dire the circumstance. Sonic makes a desperate lurch, but reels back from knives stabbing deep inside his skull. “No! Amy!”

The air reverberates with the cruel echo of his own cry.

[No. Amy.]

With one last burning gaze to rub salt in the wound, his metallic doppelganger blasts toward the satellite until both its flames and Amy’s screams die down on the wind.

Sonic stands at the peak of the half-destroyed mountain, fists clenched and fuming as pain ebbs from his body and gives way to a new kind of resolve altogether. Amy, gone because of him. Gone because he’d overestimated himself as usual.

And for that matter, just what was that thing? And could that oversized egg think he’d get away with this? His self-loath session goes on unfettered until a single piece of paper flutters down, coming to an uneasy rest at the toe of his dust-floured sneaker.

A tarot card, part of the reading Amy refused to show him unless he paid his “fee.” He snatches it up and holds it briefly to the light, seeing nothing more than a bunch of symbols he doesn’t understand: a starry sky bisected with a clear blue sky, lorded by a hybrid sun and moon.

Beneath them sits a tortoise, right-side up.

His jaw slackens.

Doesn’t matter. He tucks the parcel under his cuff and blazes up the chain towards Little Planet, ignoring gravity and time altogether.

But Sonic’s always been a little too impatient to heed important signs, you see, denying portents to forge his own destiny: not that knowing his fortune would have swayed him from his course either way. Yet if he’d taken the time to simply flip the card over, he’d have found a child’s scribble on the back, the wisest counsel he could have received:

Your destiny is a suggestion, not a command.


End file.
